Addiction
by 3VAD127
Summary: Set way before the time skip. Just Shikamaru and the things he likes and doesn’t like as an almost-chuunin. Apparently, alcoholism runs in the family. Drabble.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Naruto_.

**Author's Notes:** A short and kind of choppy exploration of how I perceive Shika's character. It's my first _Naruto_ fic, so enjoy and ignore my noobishness. This takes place before the time jump.

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There were many things that irritated Nara Shikamaru. Too-bright days, women in general, and bad shougi partners. It was, in fact, true that few things concerning other people (very complex people) made him happy. But—

He _did_ like the way Chouji felt.

The way Chouji was big and tall and warm in that "always there" sort of way; an immovable rock who was both hardly noticeable and difficult to ignore. He liked how Chouji was soft and pleasant to lie against, and how he could sometimes feel the other's strong layer of muscle lying beneath all the softness ("Chubbies make the best teddy bears," the boy chuckled). He often pretended to be indifferent to Chouji's advances, but it was only because he was too comfortable at the moment to move. He liked Chouji, and every once in a while, Shikamaru would let Chouji capture him in a hug just because Shika liked him, and Shika liked his hugs.

He liked the way Asuma smoked.

He occasionally coughed and made faces and generally antagonized the big jounin for his addiction, but Shikamaru secretly enjoyed Asuma's terrible habits. He pretended to be too passive to really say anything, but he took a small comfort in the smell taste thought breathing in of second-hand smoke. He liked how it clung to his clothes when he went home ("Honestly, what a disgusting habit," his mother harped) and how whenever he saw someone else smoking, he immediately thought of Asuma. He liked the smoke because it started reminding him of wasted days playing shougi. And whenever the smoke started to burn his eyes and clog his throat, he was reminded of the day in the forest when Asuma-sensei dropped in smoking like a steam engine to save him from certain death, and Shika liked that. He liked security and the smoke and being saved.

He liked the way Ino talked.

She was loud and abrasive and generally obnoxious, but that certainly didn't make her any less appealing. She was indeed troublesome, but he liked that. He liked how she poked and prodded and harped and practically dragged him into practicing even though _to this day_ he still didn't understand that he just needed some motivation. Shikamaru enjoyed the fact that she was annoying because if everyone were sane and quiet like he was, then the world would be no fun. He would no longer savor the loneliness and the silence because it would be an every day occurrence, and he shuddered at the thought of that. He liked Ino because she preserved his sanity with her big mouth and big heart.

He liked the way Neji existed.

They hardly interacted, but he enjoyed Hyuuga Neji whenever he did get the opportunity. Shikamaru liked how Neji never spoke unnecessarily, and how he always held himself upright with pride. Shikamaru couldn't pull that off, only Neji, and it was fascinating. He liked the way Neji kept himself just so, headband in this position, arm and leg wrapped this tightly, hair brushed and shined this certain way. He liked Neji's silence, and he liked Neji's consistency. In a crazy world, he liked how Neji kept a level head around idiots.

But Shikamaru _hated_ the way his brain worked.

The way it shuffled and organized and reorganized and kept on going without fail even when he didn't want it to. Math problems, logic problems, tactic and strategy. His brain fired off answers without his consent. It was always on, always running, how high up is that sparrow, at what angle is that board leaning, how many degrees southwest do I travel, how fast in centimeters per second is that insect crawling, what are the odds that a mid-level shinobi will die today. He remembered every minute detail about every minute incident. A taste, a touch, a smell especially, anything could set off a rapid-fire chain of images that flashed behind his eyes. They were much too bright for his liking, and he blinked quickly until the images went away again. But the migraine remained. He pinched his nose.

This happened a lot. Shikamaru muttering something under his breath to Ino, and she just barely catching it and laughing along lightly. Then a brush on his arm, or the smell of rotting vegetation, or the sight of a black-haired nin who looked a little too much like Sasuke. It was something akin to twenty thousand kunai being buried in his skull all at the same time… groaning, aggravated once again, and reaching for Ino's glass of sake even as she batted his hand away.

He, taking it, and downing it in one go. She, sighing heavily.

He, rubbing his temples in an effort to ward off the splitting headache and the mass of activity assaulting his skull. She, trying to convince him that there was a medicine out there that _worked_ (mindless Ino, he had tried them all already…).

He, grunting in semi-contentment and resting his head against the table.

The buzz made the pain go away.

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End file.
